


we write our own story

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of smutty drabble and one-shot prompts from Tumblr <3 Most of these are probably from the #cs bangarang tag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. vicious

His fingers grip her hip and he watches. Emma arches her back and bites her lip, a soft ‘fuck’ escaping despite her best efforts and he laughs, _fucking laughs_ because even in this, even in complete and total acquiescence, clothes strewn across the floor, naked and sweaty and covered in bite marks, of fucking course Emma Swan, his Savior and his love, of course she would be stubborn.

He’ll just have to fuck the stubborn out of her.

…

Killian Jones has always heard that good things come to those who wait, but his patience is wearing thin the more that Emma talks about leaving and going to New York. She is willful and she is passionate and he loves her because of that (maybe even in spite of it) the more that she ignores the thoughts of those around her, ignores the wishes of her son and just keeps retreating into that fantasy, where she’s living a normal life that’s not even bloody real.

He says as much.

“It wasn’t real, Swan,” he tells her, and she (stubborn, beautiful, brilliant Emma Swan) digs in, ready to ride out his arguments, but he can’t. Not today, not anymore. He’s tired and cold and they’ve been walking in circles in these woods trying to find something related to Zelena. His feet hurt, his head hurts, his heart hurts, and he’s done.

Killian has loved her more fiercely than he’s ever loved anyone or anything and he always will, in spite of the way that she likes to play with his heart, and no more. No fucking more.

“I’m done,” he tells her – done with this quest, done with this town, but not done with her (never done with her, even if she’s never started with him). He turns and walks in the opposite direction, towards town.

“What do you mean?” Emma’s voice is panicked and angry, and he’s waiting for the things she’ll tell him – that he’s a one-handed pirate with a drinking problem, a love-sick puppy, a liar and a pirate. He is all of those and none of those and so much more, and if she won’t recognize that after all he’s done, then clearly she never will.

“I mean, Swan,” he calls out over his shoulder, “that I am done trudging through this forest on some fool’s errand while you blather on about a fake life.   Trying to talk sense to you is pointless.” He speeds up, feeling cold, feeling lost, feeling like he needs a drink and his flask is back in his room at the inn.

“Of course you’d give up,” she calls out, tone vicious and spiteful and he shrugs it off (it’s not until she continues that he responds) “What would a pirate know about honor?”

“There’s the bratty princess we all know and love,” he responds. There is venom in his voice and anger in his veins and he turns and feigns a bow, mocking her.   “I’m so sorry, your highness, that I dared leave your side after all these months while you insulted my feelings and berated my character. Perhaps I may know nothing about honor, but I know when I’m not wanted.”

His words come out harsher than he intended, but he doesn’t hear her following him anymore and he sighs in relief (it takes every ounce of self-control that he can muster to not turn around and look to see if she is all right).

…

Killian grips her hips and changes the angle of his thrusts and her hands fly up, reaching for his shoulders, grabbing onto him and pulling him down for a kiss. There is little finesse in the movement of their lips (it’s found in the movements of their hips instead) and Emma moans, long and low, and it does things to him, pure want coursing through his veins and ending at his spine. He snaps his hips one more time before pulling out, covering her body with his own, coaxing her further up the bed with his hand and his lips.

She wraps her legs around him as he sinks back in, heels digging into his ass, and he finds that he much prefers this to any other metaphorical digging in she’s done in the past.

Emma’s eyes open, pupils blown wide, and he just smiles at her.

“How are we doing, your highness?” he asks, and Emma shrugs, rolls her head to the left, looks at him with a haughty gaze that he knows is intended to spur him on.

“I thought you promised to fuck me,” she says, arms wrapping around his neck as she lifts up her hips, meets him thrust for thrust.

“I do like to keep my promises,” he says as his hand drifts between them, to where they are joined.

…

He makes it back to Granny’s and takes the stairs two at a time, desperate to get to his room, lock the door, find his flask and consider his options.

Killian wants to help the prince – wants to help Emma - but his words to her in the forest were harsh and Swan not exactly the forgiving type, so perhaps his days in Storybrooke are done. Just as well, since Smee and the crew have expressed interest in reforming and there is nothing for him here, now.

He takes a long gulp, enjoys the feeling of the rum as it burns its way down his throat, and sits down on the edge of the bed. He is fucked. He is completely and utterly fucked, because even if he wants to run, he will still love her and it will haunt him knowing how things ended.

There is a knock on the door and he doesn’t answer. Another knock, another long pause, and then the handle rattles. Killian stands up to open the door himself, not at all surprised to see Emma on the other side, trying to pick the lock.

“For someone who seems hell-bent on keeping others out, I thought you’d be a bit more perceptive.” He jiggles the handle. “A locked door means I’d like my privacy.”

“You can’t say things like that and run off,” she tells him, and he frowns.

“You certainly hold yourself to a different standard, don’t you?” he asks her, and Emma storms into the room, paces in front of the bed. “By all means, Swan, come right in.”

He closes the door behind her and leans against it, trying to stay as far away from her as he can in this small room, because in spite of the fact that she’s yelling at him – in spite of the fact that she’s been difficult – Emma is beautiful when she is angry, and he’s been in love with her for a long time.

“You can’t just say things like that,” Emma repeats. Killian shakes his head, holds out his hand before she can say another word.

“You’re right,” he tells her, voice growing in volume as he goes. “I can’t, but you certain can. You know that I care for you, you know that I came to find you, and yet you ignore my words and my feelings and pretend that it doesn’t matter. And it might not to you, but it bloody well does to me!”

The look of shock that crosses Emma’s face is enough to shut him up, to make Killian turn away. He yelled at a princess. He is ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he starts to say, but there is movement and Emma closes the distance, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards her, crushing her lips against his with a passion that takes him off guard. He stumbles, hand reaching out to grab at anything that he can, settles for her jacket, just to steady himself. Her tongue is plunging into his mouth, her hands grab at his hair and his face and he wants it to stop and never end at the same time.

“Don’t leave me again,” she says between frantic kisses, “don’t you fucking dare leave me, Killian Jones.” Her fingers reach for his jacket, shoving it off of his shoulders, and he lets it fall, lets it hit the floor as he makes quick work of her own.

“Damnit, Swan,” he tells her, angling her neck up and kissing down her jawline, “if I had known you react like this – “

“Shut up,” she says, stepping back to pull her sweater over her head, grab the collar of his vest and pulling him back in. “Just stop talking for once and just fuck me.”

“Oh darling,” Killian responds, making quick work of his belt and his vest, and trying not to think too hard about the possible ramifications of these actions. “I fully intend to.”

…

When she comes, she comes hard, eyelids fluttering shut and her moan so loud he swallows it with a kiss, pressing into her and following her over the edge. He swears he sees stars; it’s so bright and brilliant.

He pushes himself off Emma, brushes the sweat-soaked hair off her face, tries to think of what to say, but Emma speaks first.

“Maybe you were right,” she says, “maybe this is what’s real.”

Killian can’t help but grin cheekily, and leans down to kiss her once more.

“Emma,” he says softly, fingers stroking her cheek delicately, “I can definitely assure you that what just happened here was very much real.”

“Shut up,” she says, but there is a faint smile on her lips and he can’t help but kiss her again. He’s not sure that this is a good idea – there’s a lot of things that are still left unsaid - but she just whispers, “don’t leave me,” against his lips and he promises, for now and forever, with his body and his soul, that he will not leave her again.


	2. in the shadow of your heart

**In the shadow of your heart**

It is the way that she whispers his name that undoes him every time.

Killian never thought that Emma would be a noisy lover and for the most part she’s not, no more than he is (her touch makes him lose his mind and loosens his tongue, and she has been known to curse a blue streak right on the edge) but every whimper is as loud as a thunderclap in the still darkness of their room. The sheets rustle beneath her hips as she gasps in his ear, legs scrambling for purchase as she climaxes. Her feet brush against his leg and he shivers as she presses herself closer to him, back arching up when she tumbles over, his name on her lips, quiet as the sea on a moonless night.

His name becomes a sigh, an exhalation, a promise of something more as her lips move against his jaw (he slows his hand only slightly, clutching her to him with his other arm, bringing her down so he can coax her back up again). Her fingers twist in the hair at the nape of his neck and she inhales slowly, a soft laugh escaping on the exhale. Her breath against his throat makes him swallow harshly as her breasts press against his chest and she trails light kisses down his neck (his love is a fierce warrior and a protective mother but when she is in his arms and spent, she is something else entirely that defies description, and he will never tire of seeing this side of her).

Her eyes are gentle and open as she cups his face in her hands, presses soft kisses of thanks against his lips, and he falls into her touch. If she is the ocean then he is more than willing to drown in her.

He moves his fingers, listening to her breath catch, and begins again.


	3. the ecstasy of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 3x22, Emma descides to take a page from Shakespeare and not wait until tomorrow. Or something. She hated English class.

the ecstasy of love

 

 

Emma never liked English class in school. Shakespeare always seemed so overrated with all those thees and thous and promises of undying, unyielding love which were not her reality. And yet, now, for the first time ever, she's suddenly reminded of how parting is such sweet sorrow: she doesn't want to stop kissing Killian goodnight, doesn't want to wait until tomorrow to see him again. Kissing him is the only thing she wants to do right now and for the rest of the foreseeable future, and she can't let go of him, one hand clutching his jacket, the other resting on his chest, above his heart.

 

For what it's worth, he's tried to stop her - stop them, really, because he dives back in when there's a pause in conversation, as eager as she is, as reluctant to stop.

 

"Swan, it's not like I'm going anywhere- I'm only across the way," he tells her, voice soft yet loud in the quiet of the hall and she smiles against his lips (it's like he knows this reassurance is needed and she appreciates it - appreciates him, and all that he does for her. He is not going anywhere).

 

As for across the hall...it's a tempting thought, considering him so close and yet so far, but the presence of her son dampens her ardor (what is it about Killian Jones that makes her speak in such foreign tongues, such poetic language? She must be losing her damn mind). 

 

She sighs and pushes herself away from him in spite of what she wants.

 

(What Emma wants is to stay out here in the hallway and kiss him. What she wants is to follow him into his bedroom, lock the door, and keep kissing him. What she wants is to finally give into to all the impulses and give into the innuendoes, the remarks made flippantly by him but remembered by her. She wants everything he's willing to give her, and from the way that his body curves into hers, from the way that his hand lingers on her hip, she thinks he would be willing to give her as much as she wants. She is greedy and only slightly ashamed of it.)

 

"Yeah," she says, glancing up at him, "across the hall." He looks absolutely wrecked - lips kiss-swollen and eyes love-drunk and Emma knows she probably looks the same, but she smiles wide, giddy and excited because looking like this is a good thing, a new thing. It's only later, after extracting herself from a final goodbye kiss, that she checks her appearance in the small mirror in her bedroom. Everything, from her rosy cheeks to the smile so big and easy on her face to the way that her pupils are blown wide, is different, and she presses her hand to her mouth to stop the giggles that threaten to spill out of her.

 

She is happy - happier than she's ever been, happier than she ever thought possible. She is home. 

 

Emma changes, limbs shaky from all of this newness, from the residual feelings of wanting that still course through her veins and linger between her thighs, and climbs under the covers of her bed. On the other side of the room Henry lets out a soft snore.

 

She is so full that she wants to burst: full of happiness, full of longing, full of regret for her harsh words and harsher actions not just to Killian but to her family as well.

 

At first she assumes it's the lethal combination of joy and remorse that keeping her awake. She lies in bed, staring up, watching the lights from the patio in front of Granny's cast a reflection on the ceiling above. After all that she has been through, she's surprised she's not more tired but she's not and so she listens, hoping that the breathing of Henry will lull her to sleep. 

 

It doesn't.

 

Instead, she hears Killian in his room; quiet footsteps as he does whatever he is doing in his room (she tries not to think too much about it and only fails miserably). It's only after she listens and imagines for far too long, ears straining to hear, that she realizes that she's not awake because there is too much going on in her brain.

 

She's awake because of him.

 

It's not that she needs him by her side, though his absence after all that time in the Enchanted Forest feels like something is missing. No, this is desire, pure and simple, a fire kindled in Neverland with their first kiss, and now raging (she is not sure that any consummation would prevent her from burning up - it might just consume them both - and there she is with that poetry noise again).

 

There is movement - a soft 'click' as his door closes, the sound of his feet as he walks down the hall to the bathroom. There is another 'click', and then the shower starts, and Emma's imagination runs away from her completely (and, like, jumps into the gutter because all she can think about right now is that he is naked and that is a distraction). 

 

(None of this is any surprise because the man is damn fine and he knows it, and between the leather he always wears and the way he was dressed in the Enchanted Forest, there's no place Emma's mind won't go when it comes to him and now that she's kissed him...)

 

The heat between her legs grows, her whole body on edge and practically vibrating when she thinks about him so close and yet so far, and soon she's not thinking, she's moving. Completely on impulse, Emma slips out of bed, careful not to wake Henry, and is crossing the distance between her room and the bathroom before she can think twice. She stops right outside the door, places her forehead against the cool wood, and tries to still her heart, which is beating so hard that it threatens to escape her chest. 

 

Emma's not sure what he would say if she went in there, invading his privacy like that, but then she hears a moan (or at least swears she hears a moan) and there's no thinking, just impulse again as she throws open the shower door because if he's moaning then he is just as gone as she is and -

 

She closes it behind her softly but the air change in the room ruffles the curtains of the shower and Killian peeks his head around it, eyes hooded. He licks his lips, looking at her, and she feels flushed but she's here, now, and she's not just going to walk out on him, not after bringing them this far.

 

"Might as well hop in, then," he says, voice low and tight and doing weird things to her. He looks her up and down and adds, trying to sound casual (he's failing miserably at it), "the more the merrier, as they always say." He gives her a shit-eating grin with those words.

 

"Is that what they say?" Emma asks, smile slowly spreading across her face as she unbuttons the top of these absolutely unsexy pajamas, slips out of the bottoms and her underwear, all under Killian's watchful gaze. She steps into the shower and the minute she's inside - the spray barely hits her - he's pulling her towards him for a desperate, searing kiss. He wraps his handless arm around her, other hand moving all over her body like he wants to touch every bit of her and doesn't know where to start. She knows the feeling well, because her hands travel from his shoulders to his ass, to his face and his hair and then finally downwards, to his hardness which is pressing into her stomach and making her groan against his lips (and hello, that was definitely a moan because he does it again when she reaches down for him). Emma wraps the fingers of one hand around, thumb trailing over the head, while with the other she reaches up and grabs his hair (she doesn't think she'll ever stop doing this and she doesn't really mind because he groans into her mouth and kisses her harder).

 

Killian rest his hand over hers, encouraging her motion. She lets go of his hair in order to reach for the conditioner, because water is a poor lubricant and if she knocks over half the bottles in the shower her haste to find it, then she doesn't care because she's moving their hands together and he's groaning into her mouth. He helps her with the pace and the pressure and it's hotter than it could be, the way that his hips move as she does this and she'd use her mouth but she doesn't want to stop kissing him even if kissing means leaving his lips to suck bruise on his neck because he is hers (he grunts out her name like a prayer when her teeth graze his throat and when did he name become so erotic?).

 

She moves her hand so that her fingers twist his own, twist over the tip and he's coming, drawing in a deep breath before burying his face in her neck and moaning and she's so turned on right now she feels like she might just come from hearing that. The vibrations travel over every inch of her skin, making her feel alive and reckless (this is foolish, Granny could find them, Ruby could hear them) but the feel of him against her is better than she ever thought and she can't wait to feel all of him, get wrapped up in the sheets and in him. 

 

She strokes him lazily, drawing out the last bits of his orgasm, feeling his whole body relax against hers. His hand comes around to stop her while with the other arm he pulls her close, forearm resting against her back.

 

"Quite talented there, Swan," he tells her, letting go of her hand, resting his forehead against her, and Emma's been complimented during sex but never by someone who means as much to her as Killian does. She doesn't know what to say but doesn't say anything because at that moment the water decides to crap out on them, spraying cold water until Killian reaches behind them and fiddles with the handle. When the hot water is restored - these freaking pipes and old-ass water heater, probably as old as Emma herself - he runs his hands through her hair before fixing her with the most heated gaze she's ever been given in a shower (or anywhere else for that matter).

 

He doesn't say anything - no innuendoes, no witty remarks - but he does step forward and pull her to him, wrapping his left arm around her waist and moving her so that her back is against his chest, the water is pouring over both of them, and his other hand is trailing downwards towards her center, fingers ghosting over the bundle of nerves there and Emma jolts from the slightest of touches. She gripes the bicep of one hand while the other scrambles against the slick tiles.

 

He laughs against her neck, sucks a bruise that she knows will matcher her own but doesn't stop there, continues to kiss her shoulder before she turns her head and kisses him again. All the while his finger is brushing against her, making her arch against him and moan against his lips. He's figuring her out quickly, waiting for the movements that cause her to gasp, and press her body into his and and then he keeps doing it, learning her so well (Emma can't say that many men have tried but of course he would, of course) so that she comes suddenly, hit by the sensation of running then falling, body shaking as that first one is followed by another, equally sudden and equally as awe-inspiring. She can feel everything - the rasp of his beard against her neck, the press of his body against her own, the callouses on his hand, every single drop of water falling on her back.

 

She moans and he lets go, spins her so that her back is against the cold tile - so different from the heat of his body, the warmth of the water, and he's kissing her breasts, cupping one in his hand while he works the other with his mouth, lettering her gather some of her wits before his hand returns, nudging her legs apart. 

 

"Up," Killian whispers against her skin, and Emma shifts so that one foot is propped up on the edge of the tub, giving him more access. "That's a good lass," he tells her and normally that kind of talk would piss her off but there's something about him saying it - encouraging her onward - that makes her feel flustered and flushed, whole body alive because when does this bastard never encourage her?

 

Exactly.

 

That's even before he slips a finger into her, palm still pressed against her, and the combined feelings are fucking amazing. He slips another digit in, pressing down on that freaking bundle of nerves while moving his fingers inside of her and she greedily grinds down onto his hand and he chuckles before she wraps both of her arms around his neck and pulls him forwards, kissing him like it's the end of the freaking world.

 

(It just might be if she comes again because no one has done this, no one but him, no one ever spent so much time on her and her alone.)

 

He says nothing, which surprises her but his breathing changes when she moans into his ear. She can hear the gasp, hears the noise in the back of his throat when she comes again, (fuck) legs trembling, clings to him as he continues his ministrations because she can barely hold herself up, everything is starting to blur together into one giant humming sensation and, "Goddamnit, Hook," she mutters as her head falls forward and she leans against his shoulder.

 

She can feel his amusement this time in the way that his shoulders shake, but he slows down the pace and everything down there - every movement of his fingers against her skin - is too much that it may very well kill her.

 

"You can stop," she says, moving her thigh as if to stop him (why does she even bother, he's still a pirate) but he brushes it away and tells her, "I can, but I won't." Then he pauses, and asks, "Do you really want me to stop?"

 

She opens her eyes and looks at him, studying the way that his eyes are so blue, so focused on her, and she loves him, loves this man so much even if love is something, like poetry and Shakespeare and home, that is foreign to her world. She loves him, and so she says, "Don't stop. Never stop."

 

He doesn't.

 

At least, not for some time (she is greedy, and only slightly ashamed of it, but the look in his eyes after he turns off the shower and hands her a towel tells her that he doesn't mind at all).


	4. idle hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma can’t fall asleep without a little help. My last contribution to #cs bangarang. This gets porny, and this is also not a good description of what happens but I’m lame and wanted to use this and my brain shuts off at 9pm these days.

idle hands

One day, Emma thinks, Granny is going to have to get with the twentieth century. 

She tosses the remote control (fifteen channels and nothing on) onto the bed with a sigh. Her laptop is worthless – Granny doesn’t do wifi – and she’s skimmed all the books in this hotel room twice (there are two – one is a brief history of Maine, the other is a bird watching guide to the northeastern US, and neither are riveting). 

She’s bored. Ridiculously bored, which is a first for her when it’s come to Storybrooke. 

Henry’s gone to Regina’s for the night, a decision that Emma is okay with because she saw the sincere worry in his eyes, the fear that Regina might backslide. She remembers the solemn look on his face when he grabbed his backpack and headed out the door, convinced that a mother’s love for her son could keep Regina good.

Emma’s never certain when it comes to Regina (‘contentious’ wouldn’t even begin to describe their relationship) but where Henry is concerned, she feels comfortable in the knowledge that after all that’s happened – in the past year, since the curse was broken the first time, and in the weeks she’s been back - Regina will definitely not put their son in harm’s way.

But without Henry around to make fun of paid programming, there’s nothing to do. 

Of course, that’s just within her room. 

Emma flops back onto the bed, hands on her stomach, thoughts turning to Killian across the hall. They parted ways after dinner (her fingers gripping the collar of his jacket, lips moving softly against his as she said goodnight) and she wonders what he’s doing. She knows that Henry has taught him how to turn the TV off and on – does he watch the infomercials too? What books does he have in his room? Is he reading one right now? What else could he be doing?

The fingers of her left hand dip lower, brushing across the skin above the waistband of her jeans, and a jolt of electricity goes through her at the thought of Killian alone. She licks her lips, the taste of him still lingering there, and she wonders – 

She’s not sure what’s between them – she trusts him with Henry, trusts him with her family, but she’s not quite to the point where she’s trusting him with her heart (no one has ever taken good care of it anyway). Love doesn’t come easy to her – it took her so long to love her son, and he was so fierce, so adorable, so earnest and adamant that she should have loved him instantly. Now, she’s loves him more than she ever felt possible to love someone, which makes her wonder just what can happen between her and Killian, if she lets it.

Well, okay, she totally knows one thing tht could happen, and when her hand dips lower, across the button of her jeans, she considers it.

It’s been tense in Storybrooke lately since they accidentally returned with Marian, not to mention Zelena before that, and there’s that whole year where her memories weren’t her own and – 

She undoes the button, slips her hands into her jeans, eyes closing when her fingers dip lower into her own warmth. With her eyes closed, she pretends it’s him, but even as she tries to fall into a rhythm, it’s just not working: it would be better if it was Killian there, and Emma knows it. 

She’s wanted him for a while, and it’s pretty obvious the feeling is mutual (doe-y eyes and pining glances that she can’t hide because she knows what it’s like to kiss him, to feel him hold her in his arms, to know what he gave up just for her). The idea of no strings attached isn’t something that is foreign to either of them - she still remembers the way that he flirted with her in the tavern, asking her back to his ship - and she’s tempted, sorely tempted, to see if he’d be up for blowing off some steam. 

Emma thinks that he might, and if not – if he plays the gentleman and rebuffs her – then she can make her own fun.

She stands up, buttoning her jeans and grabbing her room key. She locks the door behind her and crosses the six steps to his door before freezing, hand raised, ready to knock. The fear takes hold and she scared for a moment that this is an incredibly foolish idea (she knows what he really wants from her even if she has trouble giving it) and she almost turns away – in fact she does, body curled away from the door, hand outstretched towards the solid wood – before she does knock, three quick taps, retracting her hand when she finishes (she is such a fool). 

She hears the bed creak, a muffled curse, and time stretches out on front of her before she hears footsteps and Killian opens the door just slightly. His hair is tousled, his eyeliner smudged in a way that she really likes, and his lower lip looks red, like he’s been worrying it. He leans against the doorframe with his left arm, hook gone from its brace, and she worries that she may be bothering him.

“Emma – is everything all right?” he asks, and Emma suddenly feels ridiculous, coming here like this – trying to see if he was up for this, because the minute she sees him, sees the blue of his eyes and the way that he looks at her so earnestly, so carefully, she’s realizes this will never some momentary dalliance, no friends with benefits situation. He may not have her heart (yet, she knows there’s a yet, she knows she’s always standing on the precipice with him, held back by her own baggage which weighs a fucking ton) but he has her trust and friendship and so everything with him matters more than she dares admit.

“I – “she starts, feeling the brush creeping up her neck. “I just – “ her eyes snap back to his form, and she can see that he’s not wearing his vest, that he’s got his shirt loose and she can’t even see his pants behind the door and – “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Killian nods, and looks away, and there are spots of color on his cheeks as he responds, “I wasn’t sleeping,” in such a way that Emma grasps what he very well may have been doing immediately, and now the blush is on her face as well and she lets out a slow exhale. 

“Sorry,” she says, but she’s not, because she’s looking at him again and he’s looking at her and he swings the door open just a bit wider and she can see that his pants are low on his hips and he’s not really hiding anything but the laces are undone and – 

“Do you need something, Emma?” he asks, with loaded meaning, tilting his head to the side like a puppy, and she bites her lip, debating what to do. His shirt’s hanging loose and she can see his collarbone and the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder and she wants to lick and bite and taste it and that scares her, so much (it will never be nothing with him). So she says, quietly, “Can I come in?”

Killian gestures that she can, stepping out of the doorway and allowing her to enter. He closes the door behind her and she crosses to the bed, planning to sit down but entirely uncertain because what is she doing here? and why did she think this would be easy? because it’s never easy, not with even him. 

“I was bored,” she says, shoving her hands into her pockets, now very aware that she was just touching herself and thinking of him while he may have been doing the same here. “I was wondering what you were up to,” she adds, unable to fight off the smirk, the upward twitch of her mouth as she glances over to at him (his pants dip low and his shirt is so loose makes her question her sanity in being in a room alone with him). 

“I understand the notion,” Killian admits, and Emma smiles. “Any thoughts on what to do for entertainment?” Her eyes dip down, to where his arousal is half-hidden by his shirt.

“I kindof like your idea,” she tells him, watching his eyes go wide and his cheeks go darker as he takes in the full meaning of her words, and he swallows, looks down. 

“I’m sorry if you – “ he starts, but she interrupts. 

“Don’t be,” she says. “I…had a similar idea.”

This earns her a saucy grin as he takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “You’re not offended that I – “ he asks with that breathless edge that always does her in, and she can’t be, considering she was doing the same thing not moments earlier, thinking about him, about his mouth and his lips and his hand, and she shakes her head, swallowing thickly. 

“Not if you’re not offended...” She doesn’t know how he does it, how he makes her so honest, so truthful, so ready to tell him anything that he would ask, but she appreciates the gleam in his eyes that speaks of fun (they’ve had so very little time to follow through on his promise from Neverland, and she wants to, so very much, learn what Killian finds to be fun). 

He studies her for a moment, grin wavering slightly as he takes in her expression, blue eyes wide and careful, and then he steps forward and his mouth is on hers (they fit together so well). She’s kissing him back, fingers reaching up to grasp the back of his neck, and he pulls him towards her, bracing pressing against the small of her back. They are not desperate but deliberate in their actions, and she finds herself being moved backwards towards the bed. 

He breaks the kiss, brushing his lips against hers, and she inhales shakily.

“I don’t have a condom,” she tells him as all the blood in her body pools between her thighs at his touch (she didn’t really think this out) and she can pretty much feel the frown, before his lips are against hers again and he’s lowering her to the bed.

“Surely, Swan,” he tells her, mouth beside her ear, “you should know that there are other activities we could indulge in.” His teeth brush against her earlobe as he pulls back and studies her. There’s a moment where all the swagger and bravado vanish and he looks at her with wide blue eyes that make her breath catch (how did she ever think that this could mean nothing when this means everything?).

“Are you sure you…” he trails off, and she smiles, reaches for his face, brushes her thumb across the scar on his cheek, below his eye. 

“I think this shirt needs to come off, don’t you?” she asks, trailing her fingers down his neck, reaching for the neckline of his shirt, and he grins salaciously. 

“That can be arranged,” Killian tells her, leaning back and pulling the shirt over his head in a fluid movement before depositing it on somewhere on the bed. His fingers find her hip, inching upwards to play with the hem of her shirt. He raises an eyebrow and she smiles wider. Soon her shirt joins his, and he’s kissing her again, pressing her back into the bed, fingers splayed across her hip, thumb brushing circles against her stomach.

It’s so good, to feel him like this, the weight of him against her, the feeling of his skin against her own. Emma lets her fingers trace his back, feeling the smooth scars, the play of muscles underneath as he moves above her, fingers drifting up to her breasts, tracing her nipple through the thin fabric. She arches with his touch, pressing up and into him, her hand reaching for him, feeling the hard length of him straining against his pants and he breaks away from her lips with a groan. 

It is too much and not enough, the feeling his lips blazing a trail down her neck towards her breasts, and she threads her fingers into his hair, clutching him to her, each movement of his lips fueling the fire inside of her. Soon he is brushing aside the flimsy material, his mouth hot against her skin, and she can’t help but moan. 

He is as skilled with his mouth as she always expected him to be (she remembers his swagger from the tavern, the way that he’s always so sure of himself) and she’s writhing beneath him when he moves his hand south and thank god his fingers are working at her pants, slipping below the waistband, and he actually moans when he feels how wet she is (she’d be embarrassed with anyone else but this is Killian and so there is no shame, no fear, nothing other than the two of them together in this). 

“Emma,” he exhales, voice thick with emotion, his breath hot against her face and she turns her head, catches his lips again (she can’t deal with this, can’t deal with emotion, doesn’t know what to tell him in response but she can show him what it means to her).

It becomes glaringly obvious that her pants are too tight, and so she shucks them quickly, eagerly, and Killian laughs as she kicks them down to her ankles. “Impatient?” he remarks, and she can’t help but laugh too, and it’s not as scary as she would have thought, being with him in nothing but her underwear, his fingers quickly resuming their quest. 

Killian is dedicated at this task, mouth against her breast, trying to find out the right way to move against her to make her groan and buck against his hand (which he does, in time, with some false starts but that’s to be expected). Her feet press into the mattress, back arching as he moves his fingers just right, sending her spiraling upwards before crashing down only to bring her back up again, fingers slipping inside of her, palm pressed against her clit, and she can barely register how he says her name, and how his breath catches when she keens, swallowing the sound with his kisses once more.

His kisses are hard and desperate, bringing her back down, and she blinks, guilt coursing through her because she’s been selfish (it will always matter when she’s with the man who gave up his home so that she could find hers). She can still feel him hard and ready at her hip, can taste his desire when she kisses him, and she makes her decision.

She shifts, rolling them over so that he’s pressed into the mattress, her hands on his shoulders, her hair falling in a loose curtain over them. 

“Emma?” he asks, and there is an edge of concern in his voice, his eyes, which she plans on removing (there is so much she wants to say but can’t put into words, but this, this she can do).

She just smiles, fingers trailing down his chest, towards his length, working the final laces so that she can take him in hand, watching his expression as he exhales loudly. He is a warm, heavy weight in her hands, and when she lowers her mouth to him, she watches as he closes his eyes and she is going to enjoy wrecking him.

“Emma,” he says, hand rising towards her and then falling, and she takes it, guides it to her hair, mouth never leaving him. She trails her tongue up the underside of his length, swirling around the tip, fingers stroking up and down (she likes his hand in her hair, likes hearing his groans and soft sighs, likes knowing that she’s doing this for him, that she’s making him feel like he makes her feel). She’s never had it easy, and neither has he, but maybe they could have this, whatever this is – maybe it could be easy if they just let it be (she’s not sure that will happen, if she can ever let him in completely, but she’s willing to try).

Her fingers tighten around his base, pumping up, feeling him tense, glancing up to see him looking at her with hooded eyes. “Emma,” he breathes, and she knows, and she works her mouth and hand faster, capturing his release, listening to him groan and watching his body shudder and she likes it, like seeing him come undone, likes giving him what he gives her (they make quite the team).

It is in the aftermath, when he pulls her up towards him, fingers running through her hair and removing the tangles that he put there, that Killian regains his voice. 

“I like your idea of fun,” he tells her, nudging her forehead with his nose, and she sighs, wrapping herself around him (she’s not one for snuggling but she can’t help it, can’t help the way that she feels around him, like she’s got a second chance at everything if she just takes it). 

(She knows it’s never that simple, but in this blissed out haze, Emma’s going to allow herself to believe it could be.)


End file.
